


promises

by ganymede_elegy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, F/M, basically an excuse to look at photos of kit in that pompeii movie, but don't expect this to be historically accurate, except the iron islands are part of the north because i said so, i made up my own rules, the seven kingdoms are separate kingdoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganymede_elegy/pseuds/ganymede_elegy
Summary: In the pit, he stands over his opponent and waits for the Emperor's decision.They call him the Northman, they call him the Barbarian, but from this far away, she cannot tell. If he is Northern, he has been in the south too long. His skin is tanned golden and they have clad him in Northern armor, but perhaps he is just a southerner with dark hair that they have dressed up for fun. It isn't even true Northern armor, but she supposes that is likely because of the heat and the sun.The Emperor raises his hand and gives the signal and in the pit, she watches him execute his opponent without hesitation and she thinks, no, it is not him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 222





	promises

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt fic I wrote on tumblr and they're only supposed to be short little things to get me past my writers block for my WIP, but... well, this one turned out long enough & complete enough that I felt like I should post it here. The prompt was: Can you do Jonsa Gladiator AU or Mob AU? Angsty but happy ending pleeeeeease!

In the pit, he stands over his opponent and waits for the Emperor's decision.

They call him the Northman, they call him the Barbarian, but from this far away, she cannot tell. If he _is_ Northern, he has been in the south too long. His skin is tanned golden and they have clad him in Northern armor, but perhaps he is just a southerner with dark hair that they have dressed up for fun. It isn't even true Northern armor, but she supposes that is likely because of the heat and the sun.

The Emperor raises his hand and gives the signal and in the pit, she watches him execute his opponent without hesitation and she thinks, no, it is not him.

* * *

_She is seven years old when Jon's horse is maimed on a ride and they must put it down. She is not there when it happens, but later she finds him hiding in a corner in the stables with tears staining his face. He will not come out, does not want to face the teasing from Theon or Robb. She knows what it is like, to be teased for crying, and so she sits with him and she never tells a soul._

* * *

“Alayne is _ever_ so interested in the gladiators,” Margaery leans forward, like she is telling the Emperor a secret.

“They do not have them in the North,” she says, keeping her eyes low. This is what she is good at, this is what she knows – playing a demure lady. Timid, accommodating, and one with no secrets.

She does not want to meet the Emperor, not really. From what she has seen during her time in King's Landing, he has proven to be every bit as cruel as the rumors made him out to be.

“I never imagined such a beauty from the North,” the Emperor says with a smile that would be charming if she didn't know better.

“Usually Northern women look just like their men!” some man she does not know jokes, he is drunk and loud, and the others around wait for the Emperor's reaction before deciding what their own is. The Emperor laughs, though, and the others follow suit.

“I heard the barbarian King is part wolf himself,” some noblewoman says, her hair twisted into an elaborate, painfully tight style. “I hear he eats raw meat and sleeps on the floor!”

“Have you ever met the Northern King, Alayne?” The Emperor turns to her and gives her a predatory smile.

“I have not, Oldcastle is so far from Winterfell, you see,” she lies and manages to keep a straight face, though she can feel her blood pounding furiously through her veins. She hopes they think the flush in her cheeks is from the wine and not her anger. “And I am from a lesser house.”

She is relieved when she is finally able to get away, as Margaery leads her around the room and introduces her to all the King's Landing elite. Margaery is from The Reach, but has been in King's Landing long enough to know all the players.

Finally, _finally_ , they meet someone who can help.

“If Lady Alayne is so interested in the gladiators, perhaps I could give her a tour,” a man with salt and pepper hair and a pointed beard and a slick smile offers.

She can tell Margaery does not like this man, but this is what she needs and so she gives the man what she hopes is an innocently excited smile and says “oh, _could_ you?”

* * *

_When Jon gets past Robb to rescue her, she throws herself into his arms and sighs “thank you, Dragonknight.”_

“ _Dragonknight?” she hears Robb snort and she pulls back from Jon and scowls._

“ _Don't ruin it, Robb,” she stomps her foot as Jon laughs. She hears Robb say something as he moves away, but she does not care. Robb is terrible at playing monsters-and-maidens, but Jon is a better_ _sport. She likes when Jon rescues her and he usually does not make fun of her when she makes up names for them. She is good at that, making up names and stories._

“ _Don't listen to him,” Jon tells her and she gives him a bright smile. Jon is always the most fun to play with. She does not have much in common with her cousin, but he is always kind and he plays along, better than Robb or Arya or Theon._

_She rewards him for rescuing her with a kiss to his cheek and she likes the way he ducks his head and blushes and she spends the rest of the day with Jeyne talking about what it meant._

* * *

This is a waste, she thinks as Petyr Baelish leads her through the fortress that houses the gladiators. They are all in cells and they stare at her as she passes and she feels something sour in the pit of her stomach. She and everyone in the North have heard of the gladiators of the southern kingdoms, but it is not something they practice in the North and it makes her sick. Feigning interest and enthusiasm in it makes her sick. The Emperor with his golden smile makes her sick. The man leading her right now makes her sick.

She is sick of the south and she wants to go home, but this is what she came for and she will see it through, though she knows it is pointless. Theon was wrong.

She pretends to look at the various gladiators as Baelish talks, but she barely hears him. She has spotted the Northman's cell and it is all she can do not to walk directly over to it and confirm that it is not him so that this can be over. When it is over, she can _leave_. She can go back home and stop pretending to be Alayne and she'll deal with father's wrath but at least she will be _home_. She will be home and she can finally rid herself of the sick, choking hope that has been inside her ever since Theon had come back to Winterfell from his trip to the southern kingdoms and told them what he found.

What he _thought_ he found, she reminds herself. Theon was wrong.

Finally, they arrive at the cell she wants and she looks inside at the man lounging on his cot. Unlike the others, he has not gotten up to stand at the bars to watch her. He is not leering at her or saying crude things like many of the others. It almost seems like he is ignoring them, pretending they are not there.

“What is your name,” she asks and steps closer to the cell. Behind her, she can hear Baelish make a sound of protest, telling her not to get too close. She knows the gladiator hears her, but he does not respond and she feels annoyance creep through her. He is dragging this out, making her stay here longer than she needs to. “You, _Northman_ ,” she says in her best imperious tone, “what is your name?”

“The lady asked you a question,” she hears Baelish's voice slither from behind her and one of the jailers clangs on the metal bars, like the gladiator is some sort of animal.

The gladiator finally sits up and she can't quite see him in the darkness of his cell. It isn't him, she reminds herself, but she feels frustrated because she needs to be certain. He looks at her and she watches him slowly stand up, but he stays back, in the shadows, and finally he says “they call me a lot of things,” and he shrugs. His voice is rough and low and something swoops low in her stomach because... because he _sounded_ Northern. She needs to hear more words, needs to hear the accent.

“Are you actually Northern or just some southerner dressed in a costume?” she makes her voice as haughty and challenging as she can, her own Northern accent becoming just a little bit thicker than the polished one she uses down here (and somewhere, distant in her mind, she recognizes her tone as the one she used to tease him with, the one that could always get a rise out of him).

When he scowls and steps forward with an almost snarl, hope claws at her chest but she pushes it down.

“I'm more Northern than you are,” he spits, and one hand comes up to curl around the bars of his cell. In the light, she can see his grey eyes and his long face and she feels her hands start to shake.

“You'll watch your tongue,” Baelish says, but the gladiator ignores him.

“Look at you, all dressed up in their clothing,” he mocks, his eyes raking over her dress and her elaborately styled hair (her _brown_ hair, she had just touched up the dye last night).

_What is your name?_ She wants to scream it, wants to drop to her knees in front of his cell and beg for it, but she cannot. Petyr Baelish is here and somewhere, hovering in the shadows, is Varys. They are watching her and she has spent too much time here already and there is only so much she can excuse her behavior with _we're both Northern_ _and I am curious._

And so instead she backs away and turns to Baelish and tells him to take her home.

* * *

“ _You can't!” she sobs and tugs on his arm. “I don't want you to go!”_

_Jon sighs and carefully removes her hand from his arm, but he doesn't let it go, he holds it and brings his other hand up to cup her jaw._

“ _It will only be for a few months,” he sighs. “I'll come back.”_

_He is going away to visit Uncle Benjen and though he promises he is not going to take the Black, she still worries. He is sixteen and thinks himself a man grown._

“ _You promise?” she sniffs, her voice wavering too much._

“ _I promise,” his voice does not waver and his eyes never leave hers. “And when I come back, I'll talk to Uncle Ned.”_

_This is something they have not spoken of, not since that night. Not since the feast where Jeyne had snuck her more wine and she had gotten tipsy and kissed Jon as he had escorted her back to her rooms. She remembers him pulling away, remembers him telling her that she was drunk and didn't know what she was doing. She remembers telling him that he was a coward that would never ask for her hand and then storming into her room and slamming the door in his face._

“ _You will?”_

“ _Aye,” he breathes and though she can tell he is nervous, he does not look away. “I'm no coward.”_

* * *

She feels as though she will vomit, standing in one of Margaery's guest rooms where she has been staying for nearly three months now. Three months of dying her hair and pretending to be Alayne. Two months to see him in person, another to finally work up to asking Margaery to arrange this.

Sansa endured her sly smiles, her little jabs. “I suppose if you're homesick, it might be nice to have a bit of the North in your bed,” Margaery had grinned. “You're taking a risk though, Dany will be furious if she finds out.”

And so she had learned that Daenerys favored the Northman, brought him often to her bed and the idea turned her stomach, but she had held it together in front of Margaery.

But now Margaery is not here, off at a celebration for the Emperor's name day, and she cannot keep herself together. There is still a chance it is not him, but _oh_ she cannot help the hope that has blossomed once again in her. And tonight is the night, it has to be. Most of the city will be celebrating the Emperor, no one will be watching a minor lady from the North.

He is led in by guards and she sees him for the first time in full light and it does nothing to dispel the hope. It has been nearly seven years since she last saw him, and this man's skin is darker, his hair longer, a beard where only sparse hairs had been before. A scar runs through his brow, another on his chin, and she can see others lining his arms, his hands.

He stands in the center of the room with his hands linked behind his back and a blank expression and his eyes look unfocused and far away and she wants to scream.

When she stands from the bed, she cannot think of a single thing to say except “what is your name?”

He stares straight ahead, expressionless, as he says “you can call me whatever you want.”

“ _No_ ,” she cries and stomps her foot like she hasn't since she was a little girl. “What is your _name_?”

He turns to her, his eyes coming back into focus and she watches his brows furrow, just a bit. After a few moments of silence, he says “Jon,” and she nearly weeps with relief.

Theon was right.

* * *

_When Arya crashes into the room, Sansa looks up from her sewing as Septa Mordane begins to scold her, but Arya is not listening._

_Arya is crying. She_ never _cries, and Sansa feels her stomach drop as Arya's eyes find hers._

“ _They were attacked, Jon and Uncle Benjen,” Arya stutters and Sansa has never seen her so wrecked. “They're all dead.”_

_Sansa barely feels her sewing hoop slip from her fingers and all she can think is that this is a lie, it_ cannot _be true. He cannot be dead, he promised to come back. He promised to ask for her hand._

* * *

Jon is a common name but she knows deep in her heart that it is him and so she reaches up and undoes the scarf that hides her washed out hair. For a moment he does not move, he simply watches her copper hair fall around her shoulders and then his eyes move from it to her face and then to her hands as she pulls her direwolf pendant from where it was hidden beneath the neckline of her dress.

She cannot tell what he is thinking, he says nothing, only stares.

“Jon,” she breathes, taking a step forward and reaching for him, but he jerks back, like her touch will burn and she feels tears well up. She isn't wrong, she _can't_ be.

“No,” is all he says, shaking his head slowly. “You can't be here.”

“Jon-”

“These people... you can't _be here_ ,” he's angry now and he moves forward and grabs her shoulders and grips them tight, but she is not scared because it is _Jon_.

“Oi,” a voice sounds from behind them and Jon freezes, “watch the hands.”

Sansa watches as Arya slips out from behind the curtain and moves forward, one hand casually resting on the knife at her hip.

“I know you're my cousin, but I'll still gut you if you hurt her.”

Jon turns to stare at Arya and his face has paled under his tan and Sansa watches everything from fear to anger to despair cross his face and she hates it.

“That's Arya's way of saying hello,” she tries to joke, tries to break the tension, but she's crying and so her tone is all wrong.

“You can't be here,” Jon whispers again, letting go of her shoulders and backing away from the both of them.

“Like hell,” Arya scowls. “We're here to rescue you, you idiot, pull yourself together.”

“Be nice,” Sansa scolds, but from the way Jon straightens up, she thinks maybe the direct approach is best. As it is, she's barely holding herself together and she thinks maybe they need Arya to get them through this.

* * *

_Theon pulls them into a room and Robb rolls his eyes and tells him to stop being dramatic._

“ _What's this great secret?” Arya asks, leaning against a table as Sansa settles herself in the chair._

_They all expect theatrics from Theon, it's who he is, and he's been away for nearly a year, traveling the southern kingdoms to gather intelligence for their father. So of course Theon has some scintillating story to tell them, but this is beyond his usual fanfare. The secrecy of it all, it's a little much._

“ _You know the gladiator games in the south, right,” Theon says, but it isn't a question. Of course they do. The games are most popular in the Crownlands and the Reach and the Westerlands, but they are also held in the Stormlands and the Riverlands and the Vale. Dorne is the only other kingdom to ban them outright like the North._

“ _Don't tell me it's your new dream to be a gladiator,” Robb jokes but it falls flat as Theon seems to pale. This isn't his usual way of telling stories, all giddy excitement and exaggeration. He is serious and Robb falls silent as they all realize this._

“ _I saw a match in King's Landing and there was... they call him the Northman and I swear, I_ swear _to you, it was Jon.”_

_He barely gets the sentence out before Robb snarls and grabs him by the collar and slams him into the wall. Sansa feels as though she is in a daze as she watches Robb nearly choke Theon, as Arya grabs him and pulls him back and Theon staggers to his feet and pulls in gasping breaths._

“ _What sort of fucking sick joke-” Arya starts, just as angry even though she saved his life._

“ _It isn't,” Theon whispers, still trying to get his breath back. “I swear to you. I debated whether to tell you or not the whole way back. I haven't even told the King. I couldn't be sure, they didn't give me his name or anything, but he looks_ exactly _like one of you Starks. And he's the right age and...”_

_Sansa hears nothing further. Jon is dead. He and Uncle Benjen had been killed in a raid by clansmen disloyal to her father. They had found Uncle Benjen’s body, not Jon’s, but there had been a fire that had burned some beyond recognition and Jon is_ dead _._

* * *

They do not have much time and Sansa pulls a set of clothes out of the dresser for Jon. He is too conspicuous in his current state and they had managed to steal a set of commoner's clothes for him. He strips out of his tunic and Sansa blushes and turns away, though he does not seem to care about his state of undress and she wonders how often he is forced to be naked in front of others (and she thinks again to Margaery telling her that he was a favorite of Daenerys, the faraway look in his eyes when he thought he was here for the same thing).

When he is ready, they slip out of the room and Arya leads them through back corridors and secret passageways.

In the months that Sansa has been ingratiating herself into King's Landing society, Arya has been learning all their secrets. Their guard patterns and exits and which servants are less loyal than others. And Sansa knows that somewhere along the coast, Theon is waiting for them with his sister's ship. Back home in Winterfell, Robb is lying for them, holding off mother and father's suspicions for as long as possible, intercepting ravens from the Eyrie that would tell the King and Queen that their daughters are not actually there.

She has been waiting for it all to fall apart, for one of them to slip up, for it not to be Jon at all, and so it feels unreal as they arrive at the stables to find three horses waiting and a stableboy plied with gold. The stableboy punches Arya in the arm and they seem to be friends and Sansa would laugh if she weren't so terrified that she is going to wake up any second.

But she does not wake up and instead they leave the city and ride for hours and hours, making their way north and east, until they finally reach a small seaside town.

They do not dare to get a room at the local inn and so they wait in the woods at the outskirts of town until they see the ship come in to dock. It flies a Manderly flag but when they sneak on board, Theon greets them and it is only when they are properly out to sea that Sansa lets herself believe that this is real.

“I knew it was you,” Theon grips Jon's shoulders and they never truly got along as children, but that doesn't seem to matter now.

Later that night, she cannot sleep and so she leaves her cot and heads up on deck and she finds him standing at the rails and she somehow knew she would.

“You came for me,” he says, his voice dull and disbelieving.

“Of course we did,” she whispers, she doesn't trust her voice not to break if she speaks any louder. “You always rescued me when we were children, it was time for me to rescue you.”

For a moment he is silent and then he lets out a sharp laugh. He does not point out that he never truly rescued her, it was only play. He does not scold her for putting herself in danger. Instead, his head drops and his whole body sags against the rail as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. She moves forward and wraps her arms around his middle and then he seems to transfer his weight from the rail to her and she does not mind.

She does not know what he has been through, truly, and if she were being honest with herself, she's not sure she _wants_ to know. The horrors she had witnessed in the few gladiator matches she attended, the way the nobles talked about them like they were animals to be used and discarded, the cold cell he had been kept in, his rage when he did not know it was her, the way he almost seemed to disappear inside himself when he was brought to her rooms.

She feels as though she should not know this Jon who has been gone for seven years and who has been through so much. He should feel like a stranger to her, but he doesn't and she thinks he never will, because he is _Jon_. No matter what they have done to him, he will always be Jon, he will always be hers.

It did not happen the way it was supposed to and he needed help to do it, but he promised to come home to her and Jon always keeps his promises.

**Author's Note:**

> As I said on tumblr, I barely know anything about gladiators except seeing the movie when I was a kid and taking Latin classes in middle school. So I did a few google searches and then decided to make everything up instead. Also, it's like barely about gladiators.
> 
> you can come follow me on [tumblr](https://cellsshapedlikestars.tumblr.com), where I have recently been posting prompt drabbles that I'm not posting here, though not a ton so far
> 
> and [here](https://cellsshapedlikestars.tumblr.com/post/638593160713535488) is a link to the original prompt on tumblr


End file.
